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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336501">Most Disloyal and Radical</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie'>DelusionsbyBonnie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Battle for London in the Air (Roleplay)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baby's first murder, Gen, Immortal Illuminati AU, Nationalism, Terrorism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:27:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew O'Rourke returns to Ireland during the embattled times of the early 1970s to infiltrate the Provisional IRA.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And it makes us all part of the patriot game.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew took a deep breath, stepping off the ferry and onto Irish soil once more.  Even after over a century, the country still felt like home.  He shifted the backpack on his shoulder, taking just a moment to stand still and enjoy being surrounded by Irish voices before heading to meet his Dublin contact.  The man was waiting in the back of a pub on a winding medieval street in a part of town Andrew knew well, though the tenement he and Liam had lived in was long gone.  Good riddance; the damned thing had been falling down around their ears in 1848.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grabbed a pint before ducking into the back booth across from the man in the cabled jumper.  “Evenin’,” he said pleasantly.  “You must be Gallagher.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Francis Tracey?”  The man extended his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew shook it warmly.  “Call me Frank.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Our lad in Bournemouth spoke highly of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad to be home.  I swear, even the beer tastes better here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gallagher finally smiled.  “Sure, don’t get used to it.  In Derry, the Orangemen piss in the water before they send it down to the Bogside, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not for long, if we’ve got anything to say about it.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Slainte</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Slainte</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  Gallagher tapped his mug against Andrew’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The train ride was too short for a full night’s sleep, even if there hadn’t been a checkpoint at the Border.  Andrew kept a pleasantly neutral expression as the British soldier rummaged roughly through his backpack, nodding as the man waved him through.  The room his contact had arranged for him was furnished, at least, so he could have a rest before meeting his new commander.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He introduced himself to Mrs O’Hara, his landlady, a stern elderly woman a full foot shorter than he.  Her disapproving expression softened once she realized he spoke Irish Gaelic, though she still lectured him for half an hour on the rules and expectations for living under her roof.  The only decoration on the plaster walls of his room was a crucifix above the bed and a neatly framed print of Our Lady of Sorrows next to the narrow window.  He crossed himself out of habit and decided that he didn’t dare take it down.  No matter how guilty he might feel about becoming an armed insurgent in front of the Blessed Virgin, the spiritual consequences would surely be less than the wrath of his landlady.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took off his coat and workboots and collapsed onto the narrow bed.  It creaked dangerously, and he winced, resolving to be more careful in future.  Still, it wasn’t uncomfortable, even as soft as he’d gotten in his years with the IIA.  Compared to the last time he’d been in Ireland, sleeping rough with a flying column back in the War of Independence and the subsequent Civil War, this was luxury indeed.  He fumbled in his backpack for the small travel alarm clock, set it for two hours, and closed his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rest was elusive, no matter how tired he was.  His last conversation with Liam played again in his mind, keeping him uneasy.  Director Reeves had made his position clear; no matter how many times Liam might make the request, he would stay put in the office where he was “most valuable.”  Liam was convinced that translated to “I don’t trust you to act in the IIA’s best interest when it comes to Irish politics.”  Of course, after Liam’s correspondence with de Valera had been discovered, Andrew privately had to agree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re an excellent field agent,” Liam had said, in the flat kind of tone that didn’t lend itself to compliments.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By which you mean I’m good at doing what I’m told.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Liam’s mouth twisted.  “That’s-- clearly it’s not a bad thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘Tis when you don’t agree with what I’m being told.  Liam, you’re in admin for a reason, you’re cleverer by half than anyone else--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Andrew, don’t--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If they didn’t trust you, d’you think they’d still let you be planning all this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They don’t trust me when it comes to my own home!  For God’s sake, Andrew, I have never been allowed to set foot on Irish free soil.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… I’m sorry, Liam, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Liam sighed and turned away.  “Of course you don’t.  Be safe, Andrew.  I’ll say a prayer for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.  Damn his brother and his unbending principles.  This was going to be hard enough without trying to balance Liam’s desire for a united nation with his IIA peacekeeping directive.  Wasn’t it enough to keep himself alive in the nest of vipers that was the Provisional IRA?  From all his briefings, the Provos and their balaclavas were no worse than their grandfathers in trench coats and broad black hats, not that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> meant much.  Bombings, threats, disappearances, assassinations…  Had things really been cleaner in his day, or was he just getting old?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed and sat up.  A nap wasn’t in the cards, apparently.  He might as well start unpacking.  He upended the worn backpack on the bed and began transferring shirts and trousers into the low dresser.  There was a Bible in the top drawer, and he pulled it out and flipped through it.  It seemed to be fairly unused, probably part of Mrs O’Hara’s campaign to ensure her boarders remembered what kind of house they lived in.  He returned it to the back corner of the drawer and covered it neatly with a striped turtleneck.  He wasn’t likely to forget what he was doing, especially not with Our Lady of Sorrows staring down at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With that done, he dropped to his knees and started examining the floorboards.  He found a loose one underneath the tiny desk, and levered it out with his knife.  The space beneath was cramped and dusty but deep enough to be a good hiding spot.  He pulled the box of revolver bullets from the hidden pocket in his backpack and tucked them out of sight in the hole, and then retrieved the communication device from his coat.  He switched it on, checking the signal, and shook his head.  He knew he couldn’t talk in his room without arousing Mrs O’Hara’s suspicion, but it looked like he’d have to find a spot outside anyway.  Even Liz’s best engineering efforts couldn’t get through a Northern Irish roof.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned it off and gently placed it beside the box of ammunition before settling the floorboard back into position.  It looked innocuous enough, and hopefully it wouldn’t attract any attention.  Mrs O’Hara kept a spotless house, so there was no dust to worry about at least.  As long as her broom didn’t catch on a corner…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The travel alarm blared, and he jumped, hitting his head on the underside of the desk.  Cursing quietly, he turned off the alarm and pulled his boots back on.  Time to meet his commanding officer.  He straightened, then paused as his eye caught the Blessed Virgin print.  It couldn’t hurt to say a quick prayer before he left.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So now I am part of the patriot game.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sharp chatter of an Armalite rifle filled the valley, echoing off the brown hillside opposite.  It didn’t seem to phase the herd of sheep behind the group of men, but the sheepdog was bouncing for joy at the company.  Andrew ruffled the dog’s ears fondly, pausing from cleaning his own gun for a moment.  He was happy to be out of the city too, back across the Border on a republican’s farm.  If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was a boy again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes sprang open as the cardboard target hit him in the chest.  “Damn your eyes, Red, you’re the best marksman of all of us,” McFarlane complained.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, it’s not my fault you’ve never touched a real gun before.”  Andrew grinned at the burst of curses from his companions, retrieving the wad of one-pound notes from where Cahill had tossed it disgustedly into the grass at his feet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d you get to touch one, anyway, being in bloody England?”  Meagher lit a cigarette and passed the lighter around the circle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Joined the British fuckin’ Army for a bit, didn’t I?”  Andrew took a drag from his cigarette.  “My granda told me stories about running with the flying column back in ‘17.  He’d be proud to see me now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What haven’t you done, Red?” young Eoin asked, wide-eyed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Given half a damn about the Crown,” Andrew replied, elbowing the blushing boy as the other men laughed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>The rest of that week of drilling was a blur of gunpowder and campfire whiskey.  Andrew settled into the barracks-room attitude with ease, learning more about his companions each night.  McFarlane had a wife and two sons on the Falls Road.  Young Eoin’s brother sat in prison, and his ma went to Mass every day to pray for them.  Cahill’s first cousin had been killed by an Army night patrol.  Meagher had the voice of an angel and knew every rebel song from </span><em><span>The Rising of the Moon</span></em><span> to </span><em><span>The</span></em> <em><span>Provo’s Lullabye</span></em><span>.  It was hard to go back to his sparse rented room after that kind of camaraderie, but at least Mrs O’Hara’s cooking was better.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After dinner, he retrieved the communication device from under the floor and tucked it in a pocket.  Mrs O’Hara sat in her chair by the radio, knitting something in a gray-brown wool, and she looked up sharply as he passed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cá bhfuil tú ag dul?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>An gairdín</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he answered innocently, holding up his packet of cigarettes.  No smoking in the house was a strict rule, but there was a bench in the back garden where it was allowed.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded, satisfied that his intentions were at least moderately respectable, and he shut the back door firmly behind him.  It wouldn’t do for her to hear him talking to nothing, even if Liz had managed a great feat of sound-dampening around the device.  He was grateful that the station she listened to broadcasted until 9 p.m.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He settled onto the bench and lit up a cigarette before switching the device on.  “Tracey to Dr Blackthorn.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr Blackthorn here.  Go ahead, Tracey.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrew almost dropped the communicator.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Liam</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” he hissed.  “What the hell-- where’s Katie?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“An inopportune bout of influenza.  You’ve been gone for a week.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does… does Himself know you’re taking my report?”  Director Reeves would never have authorized Liam interfering in this mission, even in such a minor way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything is fine, Tracey.  Please go ahead with your report.”  Liam’s voice was careful in that way that told Andrew his brother was absolutely asking for forgiveness, not permission, in this case.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine, fine.  I’ve been sharpening my shears.  They’re new, American-made, and keen as the devil.  We’ve got some trimming to do.  The hedges are overgrown and thorny.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What kind of hedges are they?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Privet and holly.  More holly than anything, and they’re thick and strong for all they’ve not been planted long.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are there many other gardeners?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, there’s a number of us.  Big job, but we’ve all got new shears and other tools beside.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Very good, Tracey.  Go ahead with that trimming.  Don’t cut yourself.  Your next bouquet is red chrysanthemums and ferns.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it.  Good night, Dr Blackthorn.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good night, Tracey.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrew took a deep drag from his cigarette and let out the smoke in a long careful stream.  What the hell was his brother playing at?  He couldn’t think he could get away with it for long.  Maybe… maybe it was true.  Katie was just down with the flu and Liam was the first one to volunteer to stay late to talk to him.  He sighed and scrubbed out the cigarette on his boot sole before going inside.  He needed rest, and he needed to keep his head clear.  Worrying about Liam here could get him killed, and he would be damned if any man, British or Irish, would keep him from coming home to Cordelia.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I've thrown out my Bible to drill and to train</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To take up my part in the Patriot game.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew blew on his hands, rubbing them together briskly.  The wind across the rooftops was cold, and his fingerless gloves only did so much.  At least he had a balaclava.  He raised his head over the peak of the roof, checking the street below the terraced houses.  The night was quiet, no diesel engines to be heard, much to his relief.  His previous times on sniper duty had been uneventful, and he said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin every time he left his room that this streak of luck would continue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He checked the time on his wristwatch and frowned.  Only 2:40?  He could’ve sworn that it was later than that, and the tea in his thermos was cold.  That was probably for the best, though; he couldn’t just make a quick run to the jakes if he drank it all.  He could use a bite to eat though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shifted a little, reaching into his breast pocket for the sandwich he had stowed there.  He unwrapped the dark dishrag and took a bite of bread and cheese.  It was warm and squashed from being pressed against his chest for hours, but it still tasted good.  Mrs O’Hara, wherever she bought her cheese, had excellent taste.  He concentrated on making it last as long as possible, taking small bites to kill the time, and he was mostly finished with it when he heard the tramp of feet.  He swore silently and shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, pressing his cheek against the cold Armalite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe they wouldn’t come down this street.  Maybe there was some miracle still in the offing.  He swallowed hard, staring down the rifle’s iron sights, waiting for the noises to fade.  One helmet, then more, streetlights glinting off gun barrels as a night patrol crossed underneath the “SNIPER ON PATROL” mural, coming toward his building.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew briefly closed his eyes and prayed their flak jackets would hold, then gently squeezed the trigger.  A brief chattering burst of fire split the silence, and the group of soldiers scattered like a nest of ants, all of them but one.  He lay in the street, screaming, and Andrew’s stomach twisted.  Damn it, damn it damn it--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He squinted, desperately trying to see where the soldier was shot.  The boy’s helmet had fallen off, and his blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead as he clutched his leg.  The khaki trousers were turning dark with blood that looked black in the lamplight.  “Oh Christ no, please, I don’t want to die!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where the hell were the rest of them?  He didn’t take this mission to kill boys who could barely shave, and this one needed medical attention.  There-- that was one behind the post box, and another one kneeling behind a car.  Where were the others?  Probably spreading out to flank him, if his luck was holding.  He needed to move, and fast.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crouching low on the roof, he folded the stock of his Armalite up and stowed it under his long coat, then shoved the thermos in a pocket.  No audible steps, but that didn’t mean much.  The only thing he could hear over the sobbing of the soldier was the pounding of his own heart.  He crept across the roof, carefully skirting gable windows, and dropped down to the next row.  The brick wall behind him cast a deep shadow, and he pressed himself into it, listening and watching.  Still nothing except the boy in the street.  He breathed a silent prayer that he’d missed the artery and crouched again, heading toward the chip shop on the next corner.  There was a storage shed behind it he could get into.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard the shout a split second before the gunshots, and he could have sworn he felt the heat of the bullet fly past his head.  He dropped flat against the roof, and decided to take the chance.  He slid down the shingles and over the edge of the roof, catching himself briefly on the gutter before dropping into someone’s back garden.  There was no dog, and it was only the work of a moment to vault over the wall into the next garden.  He needed to switch directions.  There had to be an alley somewhere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a friendly bench against the back wall of this garden, and he rolled over the top of the wall to land in a mess of rosebushes.  Biting back oaths, he extracted himself from the thorns and surveyed his options.  A trellis scaled the back of the house, covered in the same roses.  Why did people have to like roses so damned much?  Couldn’t they plant something innocuous like ivy instead?  He took a deep breath and started to climb, praying it was sturdy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It held, and he heaved himself up onto the roof, wincing as the Armalite dug into his hip.  He stayed low, crossing the peak of the roof and pausing to look around once more.  His hands burned from cold and abuse, but he couldn’t stop to nurse them yet.  Yes, the street below him was somehow clear.  There must not be enough of them to spread out that far.  No-- there at the corner.  Two of them, faces overshadowed by helmets and rifles gleaming with lethal purpose.  They carefully walked down the street, scanning rooftops as Andrew shrank into the shadow of the gable window.  He was too big to hide effectively, and they’d certainly see the movement if he ducked back over the roof.  Only one thing for it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Certain that this ranked among the stupidest things he’d ever done, he crept slowly to the edge of the roof and dropped onto the nearest British soldier.  The man went down like a sack of grain beneath him, and as his companion yelled and brought his gun to bear, Andrew kicked him in the side of the knee.  Something cracked, and the second man collapsed.  Andrew rolled and wrenched off his helmet, smacking the man’s head firmly against the pavement and tearing the gun from his grasp.  Hopefully it would take a minute for the rest of the patrol to respond, and he’d be well away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew struggled to his feet, feeling the beginnings of all the regrets he’d have when he woke, and sprinted away.  He zigzagged through back alleys, diving deeper into the Bogside toward the safehouse he knew would be manned.  Around one last corner, down a staircase to a basement flat, and finally, as Meagher locked the door behind him, Andrew let himself relax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Saints alive, bhoy, you look rough!  What the hell did you do to your hands?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew surveyed the ruins of his gloves.  “Lost a fight with a rosebush.  Nicked this Army rifle though.  If I had a wife, it’d be a fine present for her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Meagher laughed and slapped him on the back.  “You’re a rare one, Red.  I’ll take care of this mess, you go have a rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew woke up at half-past ten, feeling drained and sore.  His hands were a mess of scratches, and as he dressed and washed his face in the dingy bathroom, he discovered a constellation of new bruises.  He made his way back to Mrs O’Hara’s house, making sure she was out doing the shopping before he went inside.  He didn’t want her to ask any questions he couldn’t answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He carefully slid the Armalite under the floorboard and retrieved the communicator.  He didn’t feel like talking to Liam just now, but not checking in would be worse.  He could at least have a smoke while he sat outside in the cold some more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tracey to Dr Blackthorn.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re early, Tracey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew blew a stream of smoke into the pale winter sunlight.  “I had a long night.  Damned holly bushes.  I might’ve trimmed three of them a bit close, but I think they’ll make it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have been busy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Damn right.  Any updates to the botanical society’s requests?  I want to make sure I’ve got all the right greenery.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes.  About that.  I understand that your fellow gardeners have run into some poison ivy.  You’ll need to root that out before you can present any of your plants.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew’s blood chilled in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.  “Poison ivy?  Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Positive.  You’re authorized to use any means necessary.  Protect your garden.  Goodbye, Tracey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Dr Blackthorn.”  Andrew switched the communicator off.  There had been rumors of special forces being sent over, but to have that confirmed in such a way…  Damn.  He lit another cigarette.</span>
</p>
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